Come Back to Me (15 page)

Alex looked up at the sound of the door opening. The detective in charge – Thompson, he thought his name was – came in, grim-faced.

Alex clenched his fists hard under the table as the policeman began to speak.

‘We've found the van. It was abandoned in a remote parking spot – and originally stolen. We think they switched to another car, as there are tyre tracks leading away from the scene.'

His heart skittered. ‘Amy?'

‘No sign, I'm afraid … We're searching the area now.' The man paused. ‘You know, you don't have to be here if you don't want to, Mr Markham.'

‘What? What do you mean?'

‘You're free to leave the police station whenever you like. It's been almost five hours and there are no developments yet. It might … take a while. Of course, you're welcome to
stay, but if you give me your mobile number I'll keep you fully informed. Maybe you'd rather find somewhere more comfortable to wait?'

Alex couldn't keep the sarcasm from his tone as he jumped up in agitation. ‘Well, that's great. We did have some sightseeing planned today, after all. I suppose although Amy's been kidnapped there's nothing to stop
me
… Then I'll go back to our shabby little room and just set up camp till you find her. God, I can't believe this.'

‘I do understand your distress, Mr Markham …'

A woman opened the door and leaned in. ‘Sir.' Her tone commanded his attention immediately.

‘Excuse me for a sec.' Thompson got up and followed her out, closing the door behind him.

Alex immediately headed over to the door and peered through the small window. They were talking outside, the woman animated and serious, the detective nodding with his lips a grim line, asking short questions and then nodding again. Not knowing was more unbearable than anything else. Alex was on the point of opening the door and demanding to be included in the conversation when the detective gave some instructions and the woman hurried off. Alex turned away from the door as the policeman came back in, but immediately swung around as the man announced, ‘They've found her …'

When Alex saw Thompson's stony expression his insides turned to ice. He began to hold his hand up, to ask him not to say any more, as the not knowing had instantly transformed itself into a blessing, but the policeman continued too quickly.

‘… and she's alive, but she's been badly hurt. We need to get to the hospital.'

Alex's knees gave way for a moment and he had to lean against the wall.
Amy, Amy …

 

While they raced to the hospital, image after sickening image strobed through Alex's mind, but nothing could prepare him for the shock of seeing Amy in that hospital bed. He had to focus all his energy into pushing down the queasiness rising like a bubble of air inside him, before he threw up on those pristine white covers.

She was asleep – sedated, they told him. They wouldn't collect specimens for forensics until she woke up, and they asked him not to touch her until they had done so. However, much of the evidence of what had occurred was clear for all to see. On her face and the unbandaged portions of her arms – the only parts of her visible – purple bruises flared in patches. Even the uninjured skin was raw, red and blistered from where the sun had had its own cruel way with her.

There were thick bandages on her left shoulder and wrist, but they were not as appalling as the large plaster stretched across her neck, covering the place where they had tried to slice her throat. Alex realised with a jolt that she was still there only because of poor execution on her attackers' part.

Less than six hours ago she had been walking next to him, laughing, intact and unscathed. God, how he wished he could have a moment alone with the animals that had done this to her. A moment would be all he would need.

His legs felt unsteady and he stood with both palms on the edge of the mattress, letting his arms take his weight.

‘Hello?'

He turned slowly, to find a woman by the door, dressed in a navy suit. She walked towards him. ‘I'm Isla Bardello.' Held out a hand, which he shook silently. ‘I'm your family liaison officer. You must be Alex?'

He nodded.

She looked at Amy for a moment, and then said, ‘You know, if you need to let yourself go, that's okay. While she's asleep is a good time for you to cry or be angry. When she wakes up she'll need you to be strong.'

He didn't know how to respond to this. Markham men did not emote on command, they found it difficult enough to do so at all. Especially in front of strangers. He couldn't trust himself to have a conversation without losing control. He was not ready to be grateful for Amy's life, as though he were thanking the bastards who had done this for the smallest of mercies. He was ready to punch flesh until he heard the bones splinter, to set fire to all the white transit vans he saw.

She was waiting and he was flustered, so he tried out a smile. ‘Thanks. I'm okay.'

She watched his face, and he wondered if she was disappointed in him. Then she straightened up, becoming more businesslike.

‘Have you spoken to Amy's family?'

‘No. Have you?'

She ignored the snippiness of his reply. ‘They need to be told. It would be more reassuring coming from someone they know.'

Alex choked back an ugly laugh. There would be nothing reassuring to them in this news, whoever told them. He had already mentally gone over the dreaded conversation with
Amy's father a hundred times, trying to imagine what Raymond Duvalis would do when he heard about this.

However, she was right. There was no choice: he needed to let Amy's parents know.

‘You can use my mobile,' she said, handing him the phone.

‘Thanks,' he replied, taking it and wandering out of Amy's room after a glance back.

He searched the maze of linear corridors for somewhere private enough, ending up in the car park, on the far side by some eucalypts, their scent wafting over him as he dialled.

It was breakfast time in the UK. He imagined Ray and Tess sitting in companionable silence in their small kitchen, unaware of the devastating news about to reach them.

‘Hello?' It was Amy's mother.

‘Tess, it's Alex. There's been an accident,' he began, trying to sound calm. ‘But Amy's alive.'

‘Oh my god.' Her voice broke immediately as he cursed his wording – by telling her that Amy was alive he had reduced her daughter's present condition in the world to one of mere survival – but he couldn't think what else to say. He was about to add more when he heard rustling at the other end. Then a gruff voice said, ‘Who is this?'

‘Ray, it's Alex.'

‘What's happened?' Ray demanded.

‘Amy was grabbed off the street earlier today … and kidnapped. They found her a few hours later, but she's been badly hurt. She's in hospital; under sedation.'

‘
What?
Oh, Jesus,
Jesus
.' There was a short pause, then, ‘Alex, tell me straight, how badly hurt? Will she be okay?'

Unless Raymond Duvalis asked him directly, Alex knew
he could not bear to explain what they had done to the man's daughter.

‘I … I don't know. Physically, yes, I think so. Mentally, I don't know. She's still sedated.'

‘They didn't … Was it …?'

Alex sucked in a breath. ‘Yes. And they meant to kill her.' His voice cracked into a roughened croak. ‘They tried to cut her throat.'

He could hear the other man's breath rasping as this was taken in. ‘We're coming,' Ray growled down the phone. ‘We'll be there as soon as possible. I'll sort the flights out. How do I contact you?'

‘Er … I …' Alex looked around. He realised he wasn't even sure of the name of the hospital. ‘I'm not sure where we are, to be honest.' He felt pathetic.

‘Get me a phone number, and the hospital details,' Ray barked. ‘As quickly as you can.'

‘Okay,' Alex replied, and heard the click as Ray hung up.

He walked slowly back towards the ward, his legs dragging, his body feeling impossibly heavy, like he'd been drugged. He suddenly wanted to sleep, to sink into oblivion, where he could discard this day, the past six hours, at least for a while. He gave back Isla's phone, and she told him she would return in an hour to check on Amy.

Finally, they were left alone.

Alex moved over to Amy's face. The image he had of her sleeping just that morning overlaid the bruised, beaten face before him now. He went to stroke her hand, then remembered he couldn't even touch her. The dam inside him crumbled and he finally broke down.

Mark waited at the bottom of the steps of one of Surrey's grandest stately homes, fiddling with the hem of his dinner jacket.

He had been looking forward to the Christmas ball all week. It was hosted sequentially by a number of top London law firms that fell just outside the Silver Circle, inviting barristers, solicitors and their aides to put aside their quarrelling for one evening in the spirit of Christmas festivity. It was a night of good-hearted camaraderie, but with an underbelly of point scoring that saw everyone on their guard. The occasion had also become a mock awards ceremony to publicly congratulate and commiserate with the year's successes and failures of those gathered. Mark, as a rising star, had thus far only been mentioned favourably on the two previous occasions he'd attended, while this was Chloe's maiden voyage into the jurisprudent atmosphere, so neither of them felt the
same level of trepidation with which others from their office approached the event.

‘Looking for me?'

Chloe was suddenly right in front of him. No wonder he had missed her, he thought, inhaling sharply at the sight of her. She had metamorphosised from besuited trainee lawyer to sexy and sophisticated debutante. Gleaming black satin hugged her body, accentuating her curves, the split skirt revealed flashes of tanned calves, and strappy black sandals sparkled as she moved.

‘Wow,' he said. ‘Chloe, you look superb.'

‘Thank you,' she replied, beaming.

Mark held his arm out and she slipped her hand through it. Then they turned and made their way up towards the light and noise.

 

The dinner, awards and speechmaking were uneventful, though by the time they had finished, Mark's head was humming from the champagne he'd slugged back with each toast. As the tables broke up to become informal groups of animated conversation, a swing band struck up and people began to dance. Mark followed Chloe over to the bar, and with freshly topped-up glasses they stood in front of a red and gold strewn Christmas tree, the tip of which stroked the high-vaulted ceiling, and watched the festivities around them.

There was a lot Mark wanted to say to Chloe as he watched her sip her drink and gaze about her. Yet he couldn't find the words to begin, nor could he work out the phrasing in his head.

As they stood there in silence he saw his father approaching, with another man in tow.

‘Mark! Chloe!' said his father in his usual booming voice. ‘This is Risto Kiesi, he's taking over from Pamela in family law when she goes on maternity leave. You'll be having a lot to do with him, Chloe.'

Mark sized up Risto as the other man proffered his hand. He had a mop of curly brown hair and deep-etched laughter lines. Mark reached out and they shook hands, brisk and businesslike.

Risto then turned and said, ‘Chloe', and again offered his hand, but as she took it he held on to it as he said, ‘It's very nice to meet you,' in a tone that was almost
too
genuine. Mark studied the grip of Risto's hand on Chloe's, until it was broken.

‘Likewise,' Chloe said. ‘I'm looking forward to working with you.'

Risto smiled. ‘Oh, me too.'

‘Chloe!' Henry butted in, watching them, the proud benefactor of these exchanges. ‘You look wonderful tonight, my dear.'

‘Thank you,' Chloe said mildly, then there was a pause. Mark knew Chloe was awed and a little frightened by Henry. He had no doubt that Henry was aware of that too, but his father seemed to bask in the fact like a cat in sunshine, lingering longer than was strictly necessary.

‘Would you like to dance, Chloe?' Risto interjected easily.

Mark's heart sank. Chloe looked at the packed dance floor then laughed and said, ‘Yes, okay.' And Mark could only watch as she followed Risto and they joined the
jostling crowd. He caught glimpses of her now and again as Risto moved easily around the dance floor, whirling Chloe with him.

Henry stayed by Mark's side, but his gaze was in the same direction as his son's. ‘Those two have taken a shine to one another,' he said. ‘Risto is a brilliant lawyer, I've long admired him. We've had to promise we'll keep him on if Pamela comes back, but I doubt there'll be a problem, hardly any of them can hack it once they've started down the family road. His curriculum vitae shows he's worked with some impressive names; no doubt he'll be filling the coffers a bit as well.'

Mark said nothing.

‘Better circulate, then,' Henry said. ‘Wouldn't do you any harm either, Mark.'

Mark cast a quick glance towards his father, who was waiting expectantly, portly stomach protruding over a burgundy cummerbund.

‘I'll just grab another drink,' Mark said, indicating his glass, which to his surprise he'd emptied in the last five minutes.

Henry nodded and strode away.

 

Mark took his time at the bar, keeping an eye on the dance floor as he downed two quick whisky chasers, and he had only just returned to his position near the Christmas tree as Chloe walked towards him alone, face flushed, smiling.

Mark held out a glass. ‘I got you another one.'

She took the drink. ‘Thanks, Mark. I'd better be careful,
though, I'm feeling all light and floaty already.' Still, she immediately took a sip.

Mark felt the same way, curiously disconnected from his body. His focus on the glass in his hand wasn't as clear as it might be, but then again, the lighting had dimmed now, and the softness was relaxing him. He tipped a huge slug of liquid into his mouth, enjoying the flare of it against his throat as he summoned up courage.

‘Chloe, you do look absolutely gorgeous tonight.'

Chloe gave Mark a curious sidelong glance. ‘Well, thanks, Mark.'

‘I just wanted to tell you, you know …'

‘Okay.' She looked amused now.

‘Look, do you want to dance?' Mark asked, regretting it as soon as he said it. He wasn't a dancer, but the music was slow enough that he might get through it by simply swaying, which, now he thought of it, he seemed to be doing already.

He grabbed Chloe's hand and pushed his way towards the dance floor. It had been packed earlier, as he watched, but now it had thinned out. However, it was too late to back out, and he wrapped his arms around Chloe's waist and pulled her tightly to him, beginning to move to the music.

He pressed his mouth against her neck, then put his hand up to cup the back of her head as he leant towards her for a passionate liplock. He felt her tense, then relax into it, and he let himself go, covering her mouth with his own, running his hands up and down her satin-clad back, over her bottom, back up to her waist again.

When the song finished, the next one began at a much faster tempo. Mark had a momentary bizarre urge to break
into some silly kind of jig, but as Chloe finally pulled back from him he saw the look on her face. She was flushed and smiling, but also seemed a bit embarrassed. Was she laughing at him? Was he a joke to her?

‘Are you laughing at me?'

She shook her head. ‘Mark, you're drunk. Come on.' She grabbed his hand and tried to pull him off the dance floor, but Mark wanted to feel her in his arms again. He said, ‘Chloe, come here,' and pulled her back, harder than he meant to, and her body met his with a hefty bump, sending them both reeling a few steps, with Chloe trying to regain her balance by clutching onto Mark, and Mark staggering with the weight of trying to right both of them. They only stopped when Mark met the ledge of the stage, fell backwards over it, and landed with a great crash against the band's drum kit, which let out a simultaneous bang and cymbal clap.

As Mark lay sprawled, with Chloe now recovered and standing over him looking mortified, to their credit the band played on after only the slightest of blips, the drummer and a few nearby people with quick hands managing to steady the kit. But everyone on that side of the room had noticed, and was either staring, laughing, or looking away in awkward embarrassment.

‘Come on, Mark,' Chloe hissed, pulling him up. He followed her lead, and they made their way over to the entrance hall, Chloe's head down. Mark saw faces he recognised among the onlookers but didn't really care, as his head was both pounding and spinning from the combined effects of alcohol and a whack from the drums.

Chloe pulled him all the way outside to the front steps
of the building. ‘Sit down,' she said. He sank onto the cold stone. ‘Do you want me to get you some water?'

‘No, just kiss me,' he replied, his speech slightly slurred.

‘Mark! I don't think –'

‘What the HELL do you two think you're playing at?'

Mark looked around towards the source of the noise. He saw his father bearing down on them, towering over them as they sat on the steps. His face was bright red.

‘Do you think you're at some kind of school disco?' he demanded. ‘Where you can grope each other in front of every one, and people will just smile fondly at you? David and Neil are outraged. You've disgraced the company, both of you.'

Mark couldn't take it in. He looked from his father to Chloe, whose eyes were brimming with tears.

‘Dad, hang on …'

But Henry was already hailing one of the waiting taxis, which promptly drew up in front of them.

Chloe dashed up the steps without a word, and returned a moment later with her coat and Mark's jacket. Henry leaned into the darkened interior of the cab.

‘Take them anywhere,' he growled. ‘As long as it's right away from here.'